‘One.’ The word, a perfect, round English word, takes him by surprise. ‘In the car,’ the voice continues. He realises that it is the young woman who is speaking to him. She has limped to the Greek man’s side. Her face is streaked with dust and her dark blonde hair, cut just above her shoulders and parted fashionably to the side, is tangled. A damp lock of it is hanging across her face. She must be his age, more or less.

‘Yes, one is dead,’ the man says, as if the woman has unlocked his tongue. ‘The other … he is hurt.’

Taylor has gone over to look at the pale man by the tree. He trots back. ‘Young bloke, bit knocked about. Groggy but not much wrong with him. There’s another one in the car. Dead as you please. Sodding mess,’ he adds under his breath, glancing at the woman.

‘You are going to Athens?’ asks the man. Tom nods. ‘You must take Kyria Valavani to Piraeus. Please. You take her. This one—’ He points to the young man under the tree. ‘This one and me, doesn’t matter, we will go by ourselves. But you take her.’

‘We’d better be going,’ says Taylor.

‘Right, Sergeant,’ says Tom firmly. Kerr has already jumped into the front seat and is checking the magazine of his gun, whistling to himself through dry lips.

‘Come on, sir.’ Taylor climbs behind the wheel and starts the engine. Tom turns away but the man grabs his arm. Tom raises his hand to bat him away, but sees a watery gleam of pure desperation in the man’s eyes. He loves her, he thinks. Is it his daughter, or … ?

‘Please! You must take her with you. It is too dangerous for this lady here!’

‘Apostoli …’ The woman takes the man’s free hand. The three of them stand there, a strained trinity. Tom looks from the man to the woman. She isn’t looking at him but at her companion, eyes down, lower lip caught behind her front teeth, which are streaked with scarlet lipstick. Her skin looks unnaturally white but he sees this is face powder. Her face is a play of angles and ellipses: square jaw and straight nose, delicate heart-shaped chin, the lower lip, now released, a defiant horizontal slash, the upper a perfect half moon. Her eyes are large, hazel green, the shape of olive leaves. It occurs to Tom that this woman can certainly take care of herself. She is whispering to the man urgently. It sounds like water trickling over rocks: pattering, sibilant, but mournful. He thought for a moment that she must be English but she obviously is not.